THE FINGER 
OF SCORN 



-by- 



Arthur Lewis Tubbs 



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The Finger of Scorn 



A Play in Four Acts 



by (/ 

ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 

Author of " The Fruit of His Folly," " The Heart of a Hero," 
" A Scheme That Failed," Etc. 



Philadelphia 

The Penn Publishing Company 

J901 



1 



THE LIBRARY OF 

CON6RESS, 
Two Copies Reoqveo 

APR. 10 1901 
COPY a 






Copyright 1901 by The Penn Publishing Company 



The Finger of Scorn 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Rev. Philip Dunchester . . . Recto?- of St. Mark's 
Norman Weir .... Jlis college friend — a detective 
Richard Heritage, M. D. Commo?ily called ' 'Doctor Dick ' ' 

John Gordon A fugitive 

Sheriff Blake 

Peters The sexton 

Irene Arnold With a heart history 

Bess . . The viinister' s sister — " a bit of a butterfly'' 

Mrs. Pickins A busy dressmaker 

Aunt Bina 

Villagers and Officers 

Time in Representation — About three hours 



Notice to Professionals. — This play is published for 
amateur production only. Professionals are forbidden the 
use of it in any form or under any title without the consent 
of the author, who may be addressed in care of the pub- 
lishers. 



SYNOPSIS 

Act I. — Morning at the Rectory. The gossip. June roses. 
A doctor's patience. The gossip has "something to 
tell." The breath of suspicion. The marked para- 
graph. Aloyallove. For another's sake. A woman's 
secret. The shadow of a sin. Despair. 

Act II. — The garden party. Love's young dream. A 
woman scorned. The gossip repulsed. The detective. 
Face to face. The proposal and the threat. Defiance. 
" Until to-morrow." The festivities interrupted. The 
gossip speaks. Behind the syringa bushes. " Who 
was that man?" A timely appearance. "He is 
here!" 

Act III. — In the shadows. "I defy you!" "Lead, 
Kindly Light." The face in the window. The es- 
caped convict. In danger. The minister's devotion. 
Behind the curtain. Suspected. The revelation. 

Act IV. — The gossip still on the scent. A professional 
secret. A lovers' quarrel. Two men and one woman. 
'Twixt love and law.. A proof of friendship. Love's 
sacrifice. ' ' For her sake. ' ' The lovers are reconciled . 
The search. Found. "He is free I " 



COSTUMES 

Philip. Ministerial suit ; same throughout. 

Weir. Act II. — Evening dress. Acts III and IV. — Light 
summer suit, with straw hat. He has the air of a rather 
stylish man-of-the-world. 

Doctor Dick. Act I. — Summer business suit. Act II. — 
Evening dress. Act IV. — Tennis suit. 

Gordon. Rough, worn suit, shirt open at neck. He pre- 
sents a hunted, dejected appearance, and is pale, hag- 
gard and unshaven. In Act IV he looks neater and is 
shaved, but is paler. 

Blake. Rough trousers and vest ; blue or red shirt, with 
no coat ; slouch hat. 

Peters. Plain suit. He is an old man with flowing white 
hair. 

Constables. Similar to Sheriff Blake. 

Irene. Act I. — Modest summer dress, with hat. Act II. 
— Handsome evening gown, not too dressy. Acts III 
and IV. — Modest dresses. 

Bess. Act I. — Pretty, light summer dress, with large hat. 
Act II. — Airy and somewhat elaborate evening gown ; 
not too gay. Act IV, — Tennis dress, or similar to 
Act I. 

Mrs. Pickins. Act I. — Prim black alpaca dress, plainly 
made ; small bonnet. She carries a parasol and a 
handbag. Act II. — A "dress-up" costume, unique 
and prim without being too odd or unbecoming for a 
dressmaker. She must not be a caricature, although 
of an appearance to excite mirth ; should have quick, 
nervous movements, speak rapidly in a high-pitched 
voice and have some characteristic mannerisms. Act 
IV. — Similar to Act I, or the same. 

Aunt Bina. Act I. — Negro make-up ; woolly wig, etc. ; 
plain calico or gingham dress, with apron and cap or 
turban. Act II. — Her "best dress," with fancy head- 
dress, a large neckerchief, etc. Acts III and IV, — The 
same as, or similar to, Act I. 



PROPERTIES 



Act I 



Bunch of roses. Stamped and addressed letters ; news- 
paper in wrapper, with plainly marked paragraph. News- 
paper bundle. Small medicine case. Glass of water. Fan. 

Act II 

Tables, one with plates of cake, another with punch bowl 
of colored water, representing lemonade, and glasses. 

Act III 
Parlor lamp, lighted and turned down low. 

Act IV 
Tennis racquets. Light shawl thrown over back of chair. 



The Finger of Scorn 



ACT I 

SCENE. — A room in the rectory, nicely furnished. Across 
corner, r. u. e. , is a double door leading to another 
roofn, with portieres looped back. There is a window 
in flat, L. c, the curtain of which is raised; also a 
door in flat, c, with lock and key. Table down R. 
C, on which are books, papers, etc. ; sofa l. c, and 
tip L. a mantel or sta?id with a pair of empty vases. 
As the curtain rises knocking is heard at door c. 
After a pause it is repeated and Mrs. Pickins looks in; 
she waits a moment and then tiptoes across to R. u. E. 
and knocks there loudly. 

Mrs. Pickins. Land ! ain't there nobuddy t' home ? Id' 
know 's I ought t' walk right in ; 'tain't my way, but I 
knocked and knocked ! It's the queerest thing I ever 
heard of for them t' all go off and leave the doors un- 
locked. (^Calls.) Anybuddy t' home? {Pause.~) 
Well, I declare ! (Bess is heard singing off R.) 
There ! I hear somebuddy. (^Looks off.') It's Bess, 
and she's comin' in here. My ! she's a pretty gay 
piece for a minister's sister. It's my opinion he ain't 
none too strict with her. 

(Enter Bess, r. i e. ; she has on a large summer hat and 
carries a bunch of roses.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Good -afternoon. 

Bess. Why, Mrs. Pickins, is that you ? I didn't know 
there was any one here. {Lays roses on table R. c.) 

7 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Mrs. Pickins. There wa'n't a minute ago. I knocked and 
knocked, and as there didn't anybuddy come to the 
door, I walked right in, though 'tain't my way. Where's 
Mr. Dunchester? 

Bess. He was in his study not long ago, working on his 
semnon. Do you wish to see him? {She has brought 
vases and is arrajtging flowers?) 

Mrs. Pickins, Yes, I do. I've got somethin' t' say to him. 

Bess. Very well, only if you could wait a little while. I 
hate to disturb him just now. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, all right then. I wouldn't want to dis- 
turb nobuddy. 'Tain't my way. But what Pve got to 
say is important, and I guess he'll think so. 

Bess. Then I will call him, by all means. {Starts.) 

Mrs. Pickins. No, you needn't. Where's Bin y? 

Bess. Out in the kitchen, I guess. (^Returns.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Well, I'll go out and see her first. She's 
got a dress she wants me t' fix over. Mebby he'll be 
through by that time. {Haiigs handbag on back of 
chair, L., a7id goes down L.) I guess I've got some- 
thing to tell him. 

{Exit Mrs. Pickins, l.) 

Bess. I shouldn't be surprised. It would be a wonder if 
she didn't have something to tell. But Philip said he 
didn't want to be disturbed and I don't believe her 
business can be so very important. I guess it will keep 
a few minutes. There ! those roses are all fixed. How 
lovely they are ! I do think June is such a beautiful 
month. {She is replacing vases, when knocking is 
heard off c. D. L.) Now, who is that, I wonder? 
{Knocking is repeated?) Dear me, what a hurry they 
must be in. {Removes hat and hangs it on back of 
chair, R. ; goes to c. d. a^id shows in Dick Heritage ; 
he carries a small medicine case. ) 

Dick. Why, how do you do, Bess ? 

Bess. Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Heritage. {Both 
down c.) 

Dick. Mister Heritage ! {Places case on chair.') 

Bess. Oh, I beg pardon. Doctor Heritage, of course. 
{Curtsies.) 

Dick. No, that isn't a bit better. 

Bess. Why, what would you have me say ? 

8 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. What's the matter with Dick? 

Bess. I — I don't know as there's anything the matter with 

him, — only 

Dick. Well, only what ? 

Bess. Why, you see, you're a great man now. You've 

hung out your shingle ; you're the village doctor. 
Dick. Village fiddlesticks ! I am still Dick Heritage and 

as much your old friend as ever ; am I not ? 
Bess. I — I hope so, 
Dick. Of course I am. Then say " Dick," as you always 

have. 
Bess. Well, then — yes, Dick, it's a very pleasant day, isn't 

it ? There, is that better ? 
Dick. Better — m'm — yes, but rather — er — distant. (^Close 

to her. ) 
Bess («<?/ encouraging him; tantalizijigly). Did you wish 

to see anybody in particular? There's no one sick 

here. 
Dick. Oh, I don't know. {Places hand on heart and 

sighs sentimentally.^ 
Mrs. Pickins (off l.). All right, Biny, I'll see that you 

have it inside of a week. 
Bess. There comes Mrs. Pickins. 
Dick. Hang Mrs. Pickins ! 
Bess. No ; you doctor her. No doubt that would be an 

easier way of getting rid of her. {Laughs.') 
Dick. How unkind ! 
Bess. To her? Oh, yes. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

{Enter Mrs. Pickins, l. She carries a good-sized newspaper 
bundle, which she soon lays on chair, l.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Why, you here, doctor ? Who's sick ? 
Dick. Nobody that I know of. I hope there hasn't got to 

be somebody sick every place I go. 
Mrs. Pickins. Well, I've heard enough to make me sick. 

I suppose you have heard about it ? 

(Mrs. Pickins, l. c. ; Dick, c. ; Bess, r. c.) 

Dick. About ? 

Mrs. Pickins. Why, about Irene Arnold and the school. 
Land ! 'tain't no secret. Everybuddy knows she's 
been asked to explain a few things or get out. 

Dick. Yes, I have heard, aiid I think it's an outrage 1 

9 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, you're stickin' up for 'er, be you? It's 
kind of you, I must say, and I guess she needs it. 
Well, I ain't sayin' nothin' t' injure her. 'Tain't 
my way. But some things look kind o' strange. 

Dick. Yes, and others look mighty cruel and most un- 
charitable. 

Bess. What is it, Dick, about Miss Arnold ? 

Mrs. Pickins. I ain't here t' argue the question. {To 
Bess.) Can I see the minister now? 

Bess. I think so. I'll go and see. 

{Exit Bess, r. u. e.) 

Dick. I suppose you came here to see Mr. Dunchester 

about this matter ? 
Mrs. Pickins. Mebby I did and raebbyl didn't. I hain't 

asked you what you come here for and I don't know as 

you've got any call to ask me. 
Dick. Why, no, of course not. I beg your pardon and 

thank you for the lesson in politeness. {Goes r.) 
Mrs. Pickins. What's that? I must say you're pretty 

impudent. 

{Enter Bess, r. u. e.) 

Bess. My brother will see you now, Mrs. Pickins. 
Mrs. Pickins. I'm much obliged. I'll go right in, shall I? 
Bess. Yes ; he is in his study. 
Mrs. Pickins. I know where that is. 

{Exit Mrs. Pickins, r. u. e.) 

Bess. I wonder what she has to say. 

Dick. Oh, she's always hatching up something. She's 

the worst gossip I ever saw. 
Bess. It's something about Irene Arnold. What is it? 

{Both c.) 
Dick. Why, I don't know exactly. I believe they have 

asked her to resign her position as teacher of the 

village school. 
Bess. Resign ? For what ? What have they against her, 

I should like to know ? 
Dick. Well, I don't believe they know that themselves. 

But you know much maybe surmised and hinted about 

a young woman who goes to a place as Miss Arnold 

came here, and tells nothing about herself or her family. 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Bess. H'm ! It's a pretty way to treat such a lovely girl 
as she is. Surely, you don't believe she has done any- 
thing wrong ? 

Dick. No, indeed ; far from it. I believe her all that she 
has seemed to be during the three years she has been 
among us. But others 

Bess. Such as Mrs. Pickins, for instance. 

Dick. Well, I believe she has considerable to do with it, 
for all she pretends to be so innocent. Anyhow, some- 
body has started a rumor that Miss Arnold has some- 
thing to hide — something she is afraid to tell. 

Bess. And does any one believe that ? 

Dick. I am afraid so. At any rate, she was called before 
the school board this afternoon and as she v/ould not 
answer questions nor seek to clear herself of suspicion, 
she was asked to resign, which she did. 

Bess. It's the meanest thing I ever heard of. Irene 
Arnold, whom so many of us have learned to love, and 
who is so refined and sweet and — why, they must be 
crazy ! I'll bet my brother will almost forget he's a 
minister and get mad. He thinks a good deal of 
Miss Arnold. 

Dick. Ah, I guess it's more than that. I am glad she v/ill 
have him for a champion. 

Bess. And she will have me, too. 

Dick. And me. Shake ! 

{They shake hands heartily.^ 

Bess. I guess it will come out all right. {Enter '^mk, L., 
with papers and letters.') Oh, is that the mail. Aunt 
Bina? 

BiNA. Yes, missy; Peters done brung it up fr'm de offis 
jes' now. 

(Bess takes mail and looks it over, then places it on table. ^ 

Dick. Good -afternoon, Aunt Bina. 

Bin A. Af'noon, doctah. 

Dick. How are you nowadays ? 

Bina. Purt well, t'ank yo'. Need n' t'ink yo' gwine git 

none o' my money jes' yit. I ain' got no use f ' 

doctahs. He ! he ! 

{Exit Bina, l., laughing.) 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. That's just the way it goes. Everybody thinks I 
want to dose them with medicine. Do you suppose 
this school affair will interfere with the garden party 
to-morrow night ? 

Bess. I don't see why it should. Everything is all ready. 
I don't see how we can postpone it or anything. 

Dick. 1 hardly think it will be necessary. 

Bess. No, of course not. 

{Enter Mrs. Pickins, r. u. e., followed by Philip Dun- 
CHESTER. They pause well up r.) 

Philip. I think the members of the school board have acted 

very hastily, Mrs. Pickins, and will regret the step they 

have taken. 
Mrs. Pickins. I don't know what else they could do. It's 

my opinion she ain't fit to have charge of decent folks' 

children and be 'sociatin' with respectable people while 

there's suspicion hangin' over her. 
Philip. The suspicion is entirely ungrounded and they 

have proved nothing against Miss Arnold. 
Mrs. Pickins. I'd like t' know. Ain't it something that 

she ain't got a word to say for herself? 
Philip. No. I am sure that she will speak at the proper 

time. {Sees Dick.) Ah, doctor, how do you do? 

{Coming down?) 
Dick. Well, thank you, Mr. Dunchester. {They shake 

hands?) I needn't ask if you are the same. 
Philip. For fear I will think you are seeking a patient, eh? 

I see you have your case. {Lidicating medicine case on 

chair. ) 
Dick. Y-yes, it's the only one I have at present. 
Mrs. Pickins {coming down'). Land ! ain't one enough? 
Dick. Well, hardly. {Others stnile.) 
Mrs. Pickins. Oh, I see. Well, you must have patience. 
Dick. I know I must. That's just it. And it doesn't 

make any difference how you spell it. 
Philip. Come, come, doctor, no punning. 
Dick. I beg pardon. 
Mrs. Pickins. I guess you'll get along. 'Twas a good 

thing for you when old Dr. Spoor died. Folks couldn't 

go back on him as long as he could tell pep' mint from 

pikry. 

12 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



Dick. No, of tourse not. 

Bess. Somebody will be sick before long, I guess. Hope 
for the best. 

Mrs. PiCKiNS. The idee ! 

Bess. Doctors have got to live. 

Mrs. Pickins. And let live, I should hope. {Going tip?) 
Well, I must go. 

Bess. Must you, Mrs. Pickins ? 

Mrs. Pickins. Yes, I must. I jest run over to see if we 
was goin' to have the lawn party here to the rect'y 
t' -morrow night, jest th' same. 

Bess. Why, of course. Why not? 

Mrs. Pickins. Mebby you don't understand. (7/7 c. d.) 
Of course, it's jest as you say, Mr. Dunchester. 'Tain't 
my doin's and I ain't meddlin', I hope. 'Tain't my 
way. {About to exit, zvhen she turns and comes part 
way do7vn c. again.') I s'pose you've all heard about 
the sheriff? {They reply ''No!'' " What is it?'' 
etc.) Nothin', only he's got word to watch for es- 
caped convicts. Three of 'em's escaped from the 
state's prison and they've sent him word to kind o' 
be on th' look for 'em. 

Philip. Have the authorities any reason for believing that 
the fugitives will be found in this locality? 

Mrs. Pickins. I couldn't say. {Again about to exit.) I 
jest heard that much on my way over here. I didn't 
git no p'ticulars. Land ! I must take my bundle. 
{Returns and takes biaidle from chair.) So you think 
we'll have the lawn party jest th' same, Mr. Dun- 
chester ? {Again going tip.) 

Philip. By all means, if nothing further happens to pre- 
vent. 

Mrs. Pickins {in c. d.). Very well, then. I didn't know. 
Good-day. 

Philip. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Pickins. {Sees her out.) 

{Exit Mrs. Pickins, c. d. l.) 

Dick. Well, she's brimful of news and no mistake. 
Bess. She's a meddling gossip, that's what she is. 
Philip {coming down). Bess, you should not speak so dis- 
respectfully. 
Bess. Oh, no, I suppose not. You're a minister and have 

13 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

got to look for good qualities in everybody. I guess 
you'll have to have a telescope to find any in her. 

Philip. I am sure Mrs. Pickins has her good points. 

Bess. Yes, her pins and needles, maybe. ( Dick laughs ; 
Philip smiles.^ 

{Enter Mrs. Pickins, c. d. l., unnoticed.') 

Dick. I don't believe they're her sharpest ones, though. 

I wonder if her sewing machine runs as fast as her 

tongue. 
Mrs. Pickins. I forgot my bag and come back after it. 

{Riishes down l. , seizes handbag from chair and exits 

c. D. L., hurriedly. ~) 
Dick {taken back). Well ! 
Bess. Goodness ! 

Dick. Do you suppose she heard what I said ? 
Bess. Of course she did, and I'm glad of it. It's my 

opinion she left that bag on purpose. {Goes up and 

looks off.) But she's gone now, fast enough. Look at 

her go. 
Dick {up c, looking off). You'd think she had only 

eight seconds to get there. 

(Bess and Dick in c. d., Philip seated h. of table, looking 
over letters.) 

Bess {as she comes down, after pause during which she 
and Dick converse in pantomime). Isn't it too bad, 
Phil, about Miss Arnold ? 

Philip. So you have heard ? {Looking up.) 

Bess. Why, yes ; Mrs. Pickins told us. She says every- 
body is talking about it. 

Dick {coming dow7i). I heard of it before I came over, 
too. 

Philip. Yes, it is indeed too bad ; but I am sure we shall 
be able to straighten it out all right. 

Dick. I hope so, I'm sure. 

(Philip is again examining letters, while Bess, who is seated 
R. of table, carelessly tears the wrapper from a news- 
paper, and reads. There is a short pause.) 

Philip. You will excuse me, doctor, if I look over these 
letters ? 

H 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. Certainly. I was just going, anyway. {Taking 
medicine case.) 

Philip. Don't be in a hurry. 

Dick. Well, I must get back to the office. I presume my 
slate is full of urgent calls by this time. 

Philip. No doubt. (Ife and Dick langii.) 

Bess (interested). Here's something marked in this paper. 
Why, it's about an escaped convict. Perhaps it is one 
of those Mrs. Pickins was telling about. 

Philip. Ah, the paper must be from Norman AVeir, who 
wrote this letter. 

Bess. Norman Weir ? Who is he ? 

Philip. An old college friend of mine. I have not seen him 
for several years. He was a lawyer then, but is now a 
detective, and says he intends to combine business with 
pleasure by visiting us for a few days and doing some 
professional work at the same time. 

Dick (who has paused in q. d.). Here? 

Philip. Yes. He says he has reasons to suspect that an 
escaped prisoner whom he is after will turn up in this 
■ vicinity. 

Dick. Indeed ! 

Bess. Goodness ! What makes him think that ? 

Philip. He does not tell. But he will be here to-morrow- 
What does the marked paragraph say ? 

Bess. Why, it's about the escape of several prisoners and 
speaks in particular of one named John Gordon, who 
was formerly president of a bank in Proctor and who 
was sent to prison for twelve years for embezzlement. 
{She has been referring to paper ; now rises, hands 
it to Philip, indicating the marked passage. He 
glances at it.) 

Dick {i?i c. d., aboitt to go). That must be the very man 
your detective is after. 

Bess (to Dick). If you like, I'll walk down to the village 
with you. I have an errand at the store. 

Dick. I shall be delighted. 

Bess {putting on hat). All right. I'm ready. 

Dick. Good-day, Mr. Dunchester. 

Philip (looking up from paper). Going, doctor? I sup- 
pose we will see you at the lawn party to-morrow even- 
ing? (Rises.) 

Dick. Oh, yes ; I wouldn't miss it for the world. 

15 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Bess (in c. d. wM Dick). A detective ! I shall detest 

him, I know. 
Dick. Don't be too sure. 

(Exeunt Bess and Dick, c. d. l.) 

Philip. {Again gla?ues at paper, then lays it on table, spread 
out so that the marked paragraph is plainly visible.') 
Norman Weir. I have not seen him for — it must be 
five or six years. So he has given up practicing law 
and become an expert detective. Well, it is a business 
I cannot admire, although it may be entirely honorable 
and just. (Takes letters and again looks over them as 
he goes tip and sta?ids i?i c. D., looking off. Medita- 
tively.') Poor Miss Arnold. How disheartened and 
discouraged she must be. It is all the outcome of an 
idle piece of gossip, and I feel sure that she will explain, 
and silence those who are criticising her. 

(Exit Philip, r. u, e.) 

(After brief pause, enter Bina l. She carries a recipe book, 

over which she is pondering.) 

Bina. Ah 'clar t' goodness. Ah done got stuck makin' 
dis ar angel's cake. Ah cayn't figger 't out no how. 
(Studies book, then looks about.) Wonder whar Miss 
Bess am gone. (Calls.) Missy! Miss Bess! whar 
be yo' ? Lan' o' massy, 'f she a'n't gone off an' lef me 
stuck right in de middle o' dat ar cake. (Calling.) 
Bess ! be'n't yo' yuh ? ( Goes up and looks offc. d. r., 
then c. D. l.) Dar's somebuddy comin'. Ah 'clar t' 
goodness 'f 'ta'n't Miss Arnold, an' she looks jes' 'bout 
tuckered out. Come right 'long in. Miss Irene. (Meets 
Irene, who comes in from l. She is rather pale and 
somewhat agitated.) What is it. Miss Irene? Be yo' 
sick? 

Irene. No, Aunt Bina, not sick ; only tired after my walk 
in the hot sun. I will be all right after I have rested a 
moment. (Down c.) 

Bina. Set right down yuh, an' Ah' 11 git yo' a glass o' 
watah. ( Takes fan from table and hands it to Irene, 
who sits L. of table.) 

(Exit Bina, l.) 
Irene, Perhaps I should not have come here — to him. It 

i6 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



will make more talk ; I was even watched as I came, 
and ihey will say that it was bold of me to come. But 
I have no other refuge — no other friends to whom I can 
go. {Covers face with hands, disconsolately?) It is 
almost more than I can bear. 

{Enter Bin A, l., ivith glass of water?) 

BiNA. Here 'tis, nice 'n' fresh fr'm de well. 

Irene (jlrinks). Thank you. Aunt Bina; that is very 
refreshing. 

Bin A (taking glass). Feel better now ? 

Irene. Oh, yes; much better. I was tired, that is all. 
(Bina goes L.) Is — is Mr. Dunchester at home? 

Bina (pausing). Ah reckon 'e is. Ah done seen 'im jes' 
li'U while 'go. D' yo' wan' t' see 'im? 

Irene. If he is not too busy. 

Bina. Ah reckon 'e a'n't never too busy t' see some folks, 
an' Ah cal'late you's one ob 'em. Ah'U go tell 'im. 

Irene. If you will, please. (Exit Bina, r. u. e.) I must 
see him and tell him all. He v/ill advise me and tell 
me what to do. (Rises.) How they tortured me this 
afternoon, those men who plied me with cruel questions 
and demanded that I tell them all my past. But I 
would not — I could not. I knew that my silence was 
like a confession of guilt, but I would not speak until I 
had seen Mr. Dunchester and asked his advice. (Dur- 
ing the above she has walked L. , then returned to table ; 
leans on back of chair, L. of table, and her gaze falls 
casually on the outspread paper. For a mo7nent she 
seems not to comprehejid ivhat she reads ; it gradually 
da7vns i/po?i her ; she seems terror stricken, takes up 
paper and reads.) Escaped ! he has escaped ! No, 
no ! it cannot be. And yet, it saj^s so here. He will 
seek me — come here, perhaps. Oh, the disgrace, the 
misery ! How could he do it? It will be all the worse 
— all the worse for him and for me. ( Clutches paper 
tightly and leans heavily on table.) I cannot tell Mr. 
Dunchester now. I dare not. I must go away, with 
him — far away, where we can hide our misery and dis- 
grace. (Drops the crumpled paper on floor, R. C. , 
well back, and turns up c, meets Philip.) 

[Enter Philip, r. u. e.) 
17 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Philip. Miss Arnold — Irene ! 

Irene (^^oingto'L. c). Mr. Dunchester, I {Stretches 

out hand toward him, then falters, tur?is away and 
stajids with drooping head, back to audience?) 

Philip (r. c). No, do not turn from me — now, when you 
need me most. Irene, I know all. 

Irene {turning to him'). All ? No, no ; you do not know ! 

Philip. I know that you are persecuted — that I would be 
your defender. Will you not give me the right ? 

Irene. The right ? 

Philip {holding out his hands). Yes, Irene, the right — the 
best right in the world ; because I love you ! 

Irene {after slight pause ; painfully). N-no, it — it can- 
not be. 

Philip. Not be? Oh, do not let that be your answer ! 

Irene. It must be. I can give no other. 

Philip. But 

Irene. Do not ask me why. Believe that I am not 
worthy 

Philip. No, I will not believe that. I will accept but one 
reason — that you do not love me. Can you say that 
that is why you will not be my wife ? 

Irene. I — I have only one answer — I cannot be your wife. 
Even if I loved you I could not ask you to share my 
disgrace. 

Philip {shocked). Disgrace ! 

Irene. Yes, disgrace — misery — shame. I have been ac- 
cused of having a secret, a dark past. I have. A se- 
cret I cannot tell ; a past I dare not disclose, for it hides 
a hideous sin. 

Philip. But it is not upon your soul. Tell me that it is not. 

Irene. No, thank Heaven, it is not upon my soul. But it 
is a sin for which I must suffer. This is a part of the 
penalty which I must pay. {Site turns from him and 
starts up c. ; he stands between her and the door, with 
arms ope7i to detain her.) 

Philip. Then you shall not bear it alone. Whatever it may 
be, tell me and let me share it. 

Irene {drawing back to l. c). No, you cannot. I can- 
not tell my secret — not even to you. Only this ; there 
is another who has a claim upon me and I must be true 
to him. 

Philip. To him ? There is — another — man ? 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Irene. Y-yes. 

Philip. To whom you are bound — whom you love ? 

{She hesitates a moment, then bows assent and turns away, 
burying her face in her hajids. Philip looks at her 
sadly ; turns to go up R. His foot touches the newspa- 
per on floor ; he starts, stoops and picks it up, glances 
at marked paragraph, then looks at Irene significantly, 
seems about to speak, but turns and exits slowly, r. u. 
E., ^vith paper. She stajids motionless ujitil he has dis- 
appeared, tJien comes down, sinks into chair, burying 
her face in arms on table, sobbing.^ 



CURTAIN 



'9 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Another room in the rectory, or satne as Act I. 
Doors and windows are open, disclosing piazza and 
lawn, gaily decorated with Japanese lanterns. This 
setting may be elaborated or modified to suit convenience. 
Near R. u. E., is a table set with cakes, dishes, etc. ; 
at L. u. 'E., a small table with punch bowl of lemonade 
and glasses. Discover Bin a, by table R., cutting cake ; 
Bess l., stirring lemonade. Soft orchestral music ??iay 
be heard oiitside. 

Bess. I hope this lemonade is sweet enough. {Tastes it.') 

M'ra ! that's good if I do say so. Anybody come yet, 

Aunt Bina ? 
BiNA. Yas, honey, plenty ob 'em. Di'n' yo' done see 

'em? 
Bess. No ; I've been too busy. {Goes and looks off c. d. 

R.) Oh, yes, there's quite a number. Mrs. Pickins, 

for one, in all her glory. 
BiNA. Huh ! she done come 'long 'nough 'go. Got new 

dress, a'n't she? 
Bess. I should say so. {Returns to table.) Isn't she an 

awful busybody, though ? I lay it all to her about Miss 

Arnold. Poor soul, hasn't she been downstairs yet ? 
Bina. Not yit. Ah reckon she feels too bad, with ev'ry- 

buddy talkin' 'bout 'er. Ah calls it a shame, Ah does. 
Bess. And so do I — a downright, wicked shame. Poor 

thing, she didn't know what to do when Mrs. Brooks 

turned her out. She was going to leave town, but she 

had no place to go and we insisted upon her coming 

here with us, though she seemed to think she mustn't. 

My, she isn't able to go away alone. She's half sick. 
BiNA. Pore Miss Irene ! 
Bess. She's coming downstairs to-night, though, for she 

told me so. It's better to face them, you know, and 

not act afraid. 
Bina. Dat's so. She a'n't got nuthin' t' be 'fraid of, 's 

my 'pinion. Say, missy, yo' tasted o' dis ar angel's 

cake? 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Bess. No, I haven't. 

Bin A [taking small piece to her). Yo' jes' try it. 

Bess {eating). My! that's scrumptious. 

BiNA. No, 'ta'n't dat ar kin'. 'S angel's cake. 

Bess. Oh, yes; that's why you gave me some, isn't it? 

BiNA. Yo' a'n't no angel. Yo's jest li'll fly-'way. 

Bess. Now, Aunt Bina, how unkind. {Looks off k.) Olt, 

there comes Dick Heritage. 
Bina. Is it? Lan', Ah got t' go 'n see t' somethin'. Yo' 

jes' look aftah dis cake. Will yo', honey? {Crosses 

to L.) 
Bess. Oh, yes, I will. You needn't hurry. 
Bina. All right. Ah's gwine come back bime by. 

[Exit Bina, l.) 

Bess. I wonder if he's looking for me. I'll bet he is. 
{Pause.') My! how long it takes him. {Goes and looks 
off R.) Why, he isn't coming here at all. He's stopped 
to talk to somebody else. Oh, yes he is, too ! {Runs 
back to lemonade and stirs vigorously.) 

{Enter Dick c. d. r.) 

Dick. Ah, why, good-evening. 

Bess {feigning surprise). Why, is that you ? I had no 
idea you were coming. 

Dick {aside). I'll bet that's a fib. {Aloud.) How's 
Rebecca at the well ? 

Bess. Meaning me ? 

Dick. Certainly. 

Bess. She's all right, thank you. Have a drink? 

Dick. No, thanks, not just now. Say, you'll stir the bot- 
tom out of that dish. 

Bess. I guess I won't. I hope everybody's having a good 
time. 

Dick. I should judge they were. It's early yet. 

Bess. Dear me, I'm so worried about Miss Arnold that 
I can't half enjoy anything. It has just taken the pleas- 
ure out of the whole thing. 

Dick. Yes, it is too bad. I don't see how Mrs. Pickins 
and some of those others can bear to show their faces. 

Bess. Oh, they think they're doing just right, I suppose. 
And then, that Mr. Weir's coming, too. That's another 
damper. Have you seen him yet ? 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. Yes, only a few minutes ago. He seems a right 
nice sort of a fellow. 

Bess. I don't believe I like him very well, although he's 
swell and all that, and I suppose the girls will rave over 
him. They don't know that he's a detective. 

Dick. That's not so terrible. 

Bess. No, but I just feel as if he were a perfect snoop, pre- 
tending to be our guest, and all the while on such a 
dreadful errand. Have you seen Miss Arnold this 
evening ? 

Dick. Yes; she feels much better and is coming down 
soon. 

{There is a pause, during which Dick, in an embarrassed 
manner, approaches Bess, as if about to speak, then 
draws back, stajnniering, etc. Bess pretends not to 
notice him, but stirs lemonade vigorously. Business.') 

Dick. Bess, I — I was going to say — to say — that is, — 

{quickly) — did you make that lemonade? 
Bess. Yes, I did, and it's real good. Have some ? 
Dick. N-no, I — I'd rather have something — er — sweeter. 

A — er — kiss, for instance. {Approaches her.) 
Bess {jumps). There ! I've spattered some lemonade on 

my dress. It will just ruin it. 
Dick. Here, let me wipe it off. {Takes his handkerchief 

and wipes her dress.) 
Bess. Not there ; on this side. 
Dick. Oh, yes. {Reaches around so as to get his arm 

about her. ) There ! is that the place ? 
Bess. Y-yes. 
Dick. Not the place I mean. {He attempts to kiss her. 

She escapes him, runs to c. D., and into Mrs. Pickins, 

who enters from r. Mrs. Pickins carries a fan, 

which she drops ; Dick picks it up.) 
Mrs. Pickins. Good land ! What be you tryin' to do ? 
Bess. Oh, excuse me, please, Mrs. Pickins ; I didn't mean 

to. 
Mrs. Pickins. I presume you didn't, but you'd better look 

where you're goin', next time. 
Dick {presenting fan with a low bow). Allow me. 
Mrs. Pickins {taking fan). And you're one that 'd better 

find out whether folks is where they can hear, before 

you say things about 'em. 

23 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. I suppose it is better to say it behind their backs, 
the way some people do. 

Mrs. PiCKiNS. What's that? 

Bess {in c. d.). Come on, Dick. 

Dick. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pickins, if I have said any- 
thing to offend you, and I hope you will forgive me. 

Mrs. Pickins (c). I s'pose I will. I ain't one t' lay up 

nothin' ; 'tain't my way. 
Dick. Thank you. 

{Exeunt Dick aiid Bess, c. d. r.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Such a pair ! they're pretty gay. {Sees 
cake.') What a nice lot of cake. {Goes to table.) 
There's the one I made. I guess it looks as nice as 
any of *em. {Tastes a piece.) That's angel cake. 
{^Critically.) It's pretty fair; seems t' me it might be 
sweeter, though, and 'tain't none too light. 

{Enter Irene Arnold, r. i e. She is rather pale.) 

Irene. Good-evening, Mrs. Pickins. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, that you? Good-evenin'. {Fussing 

over cake.) 
Irene. You seem to be quite busy. {Crosses to l. c. ; 

sits^ 
Mrs. Pickins. I guess I don't waste much time doin' 

nothin' . 'Tain't my way. {Looking at Irene sharply. ) 

Seems t' me you look kind o' pale and peaked. 
Irene. I am just recovering from a severe headache. 
Mrs. Pickins. Worry, I suppose. I don't wonder. 

You're stayin' here t' the rect'ry now, ain't you ? 
Irene. Why — yes, I am. Bess invited me to stay with her 

for awhile. 
Mrs. Pickins. Oh, she did ? And the minister, too, I 

suppose? Didn't you like it boardin' down to Mr. 

Brookses ? 
Irene. Yes, I always found it very pleasant there. 
Mrs. Pickins. I kind o' wondered what made you leave 

so sudden. I heard you talked of leavin' town one 

spell. I wouldn't 'a' wondered at it, seein' they 

turned you out of the school. 

Irene {in distress). I — why, I 

Mrs, Pickins, Oh, I ain't sayin' nothin' t' hurt your 

33 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

feelin's; 'tain't my way. But I don't believe in 
coverin' things up. 

Irene. I have found that out. 

Mrs. Pickins {coming out from behind table). What do you 
mean by that ? 

Irene (rising). I mean, Mrs. Pickins, that I understand 
you perfectly. You are not in the habit of sparing 
any person. 

Mrs. Pickins. My sakes ! I hope you don't accuse me 
of havin' anything to do with your trouble. 

Irene. It is said that a guilty conscience needs no ac- 
cuser. 

Mrs. Pickins. And you might add, nor a guilty woman, 
neither. 

Irene. No; but a woman's accusers do not wait to de- 
termine her guilt, if they can find a breath of scandal 
against her. They do not wait to know the truth. 
They lash her with their pitiless, gossiping tongues, and 
seek to devour her reputation. That is what they do ; 
and the lashes that sting the worst are the tongues of 
other women. I know, oh, I know ! 

Mrs. Pickins [a bit abashed). Do you mean me? 

Irene. Mean you ? Do I ? Ask yourself whom I mean. 
It makes no difference. I only know that it is cruel, 
unjust, and that I can scarcely bear it. ( Covers face 
and weeps.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Well, it's all )^our own fault, ain't it ? You 
never told nobuddy where you come from, nor about 
your folks, nor anything ; and yesterday when the 
school board asked you, you wouldn't tell them a single 
thing. (Philip Dunchester appears in c. D. and 
overhears.) Ain't that suspicious ? How do we know 
what you be, or have be'n ? Mebby there's something 
you're afraid t' tell. 

Irene {looking at her defiantly). Afraid? You accuse 
me ? 

Mrs. Pickins. No, I ain't accusin' you. But who's your 
family? What was j'ou and where' d you come from? 
Why don't you speak out, if you ain't afraid t' ? 

Irene. You have no right to question me. 

Mrs. Pickins. Then who has? Who 

Philip {coming down). Stop ! No one shall question her 
further. 

24 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 
Irene. Mr. Dunchester ! 

(Mrs. Tickins r. c. ; Philip c. ; Irene, l. c.) 

Mrs. PiCKiNS. Oh, is that you, Mr. Dunchester? I didn't 
see you. 

Philip. So I perceived, Mrs. Pickins, or perhaps Miss 
Arnold would have been spared 

Mrs. Pickins. Land ! I ain't a hurtin' her. 

Philip. I am afraid you have done .so already, and I blush 
for you, that you have no womanly pity, no kindliness 
of heart that should forbid what you have done. 

Mrs. Pickins. You needn't blush for me. I guess she 
needs the blushin'. 

Philip. Silence ! If you cannot use even common cour- 
tesy I forbid you to say more. 

Irene. Never mind, please, Mr. Dunchester. I, too, have 
said too much. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, no, it was all me. I must say, things 
have come to a pretty pass when the minister 

Philip. Madam, you will be kind enough to say no more, 
but leave us. 

Mrs. Pickins {JmugJitily). What ! do you mean to turn 
me out? (Philip and Irene are l. c, talking in 
pantoniivie.') It's nice treatment, I must say. {After 
pause and show of indignatio7i.^ Oh, I'll go. I don't 
stay where I ain't wanted; 'tain't my way. {Up 
toiaard c. d.) But I guess this ain't the last of it, 
as mebby you'll find out. {Flounces out c. d. l., in 
great indignation, unnoticed by Philip and Irene.) 

Philip. I am sorry to see you in such distress. I had 
hoped that you would be spared this. 

Irene. Spared? No, they will spare me nothing. Oh, 
Mr. Dunchester, I should not have stayed here ; it was 
not right. I ought to have gone away. 

Philip. Gone away? Where — to whom? No; your 
place is with us — your friends. {After slight pause — 
earnestly.') I cannot give up hope that you will let me 
be your protector — your 

Irene {drawing away'). It cannot be. I told you. It is 
for this that I should have gone, because — because 

Philip. Yes, I know, and I ought not to have spoken of it 
again. This shall be the last. Only do not go away 

25 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

until you are quite sure that it is for the best. Promise 
me that. 
Irene. I promise. 

( They turn to go up c. , as Bess and Norman Weir pass c. 
T>.,from R. to L., talking and laughing. Irene starts 
back, with a stifled cry, and grasps a chair for sup- 
port.^ 

Philip. What is it ? Are you ill ? 

Irene. No ; only a trifle faint, that is all. It is nothing. 

Philip. Let me get some water. {Starts.') 

Irene. No, it is not necessary. 

Philip. Some lemonade. {^Dishes lemonade and hands 

her.) Here. 
Irene [drinks). Thanks. 
Philip. Do you feel better now ? 
Irene. Yes ; but I think I will go to my room, if it will 

make no difference. 
Philip. Perhaps it would be best. I will excuse you to the 

others. 

[She is abotit to exit r. i e., whe^i Bess e^iters c. 'D.jfrom 
L., followed by Norman Weir. Irene is forced to 
remain.) 

Bess. There we were, going right by, when I happened to 
think that Miss Arnold and Mr. Weir hadn't been in- 
troduced yet. 

Philip. Why, that's so. Miss Arnold, allow me to present 
my friend, Mr. Weir, of Proctor. 

(Irene turns, with forced calmness, and bows coldly.) 

Norman. I am much pleased to meet Miss — a — Arnold. 

(Irene betrays agitation, which Philip seems to notice.) 

Bess. And now, Philip, you really must come out and 

make yourself sociable. Everybody is asking where 

you are. 
Philip. Very well ; I will go out at once and do my duty. 

{UpO 
Bess. And I'll go, too. {To Irene and Norman.) It 

will give you two a better chance to get acquainted. 
Philip. You will excuse us ? 
Norman, Certainly. 

26 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

(Irene bows assent ; exeunt Philip and Bess, c. d. r. 
Irene turns as if to avoid Norman ; Philip glafices 
back.) 

Norman (^looking at Irene keenly). Well, Miss — a — Ar- 
nold, I believe we are to get acquainted. Is that it ? 

Irene (coldly). I trust you will excuse me, sir, if I do not 
remain. 

Norman. But I wanted to speak with you, Miss — {she is 
going toward R. 2 E. ; just as she is about to exit he 
finishes the sentence) — Gordon. {She turns quickly^ 
affrighted. ) 

Irene. Oh, — sh-h — do not betray me ; not here — not now. 
{Both c.) 

Norman. Do not be alarmed. I have no intention of 
doing so. All I want is to have you remain while I 
talk with you for a few minutes. 

Irene. Not now — not to-night. 

Norman. Yes, now — to-night. There is no time to lose. 
{Arranges chair, r. c.) Won't you sit down? {She 
looks about, nervously.) Oh, we are quite alone. 

Irene {sinking into the chair). What have you to say to 
me? 

Norman. Now, I hope, Miss — Arnold — that you will not 
prolong the interview by asking what you must already 
know. 

Irene. Yes, yes, I do know. You are on the track of an 
escaped convict and you expect to find him here. But 
this is no reason why you should demand a conversa- 
tion with me. 

Norman. Not even when we remember that that convict is 
your 

Irene {rising). No ! Do you think I am hiding him or 
know his whereabouts ? Then you are mistaken. I 
have not seen him, nor do I know where he is. Now 
are you not satisfied ? 

Norman. No, for you misunderstand me. I wish you to 
remember that when last I saw you we had been friends, 
and I — I dared hope for something nearer and dearer 
than friendship between us, for {fervently) I loved 
you, Irene, I loved you 

Irene {turning from him). Do not speak of that. It 
was a)] ended, long ago. 

27 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Norman. Ended ? No, my love has not ended. It is 
deeper, truer than ever, and I have not yet given up 
hope. 

Irene. You do not know what you are saying. I told 
you then, as I tell you now, that there is no hope. I 
told you I did not love you and could never be your 
wife. Now I have not even friendship for you, much 
less love. 

Norman. Then you spurn me again 

Irene. I never spurned you. I told you that I could not 
be your wife, and I tell you again that there is no hope 
that I ever shall. I ask you to say no more about it ; 
to treat me as a stranger. {Tttrns up C.) 

Norman (^following her). And is this all you have to say 
to me ? 

Irene. All. 

Norman. But it is not all that I have to say to you. Lis- 
ten. {She pauses c.) Three years ago you were a rich 
man's daughter, far above me in social station. When 
I asked you to be my wife, you refused, because you 
were too proud to wed an unknown young lawyer. 

Irene. Be that as it may, all was over between us then. 

Norman. No, for I have found you again, and in spite of 
your treatment of me, I still love you and 

Irene. Say no more. I will not listen. {Again about to 

go-) 

Norman. Wait. I think you will listen. {She pauses.) The 
tables are turned now. Your pride is humbled 

Irene. Humbled, yes ; but not gone. When I left my 
old home and all who knew me, three years ago, it was 
to bury the past and begin a new life. Yours is the 
first familiar face I have seen in all that time. Oh, why 
have you come here? Was not my fate unkind 
enough before ? 
. Norman. Fate ? Perhaps it was that ; but you should re- 
member that I am a detective and do not trust too 
much to fate. It was not fate alone that brought me 
here. 

Irene. No, it was your desire to hunt down not only a 
fugitive from justice, but a defenseless woman, one 
whom you profess to love. {Scornfully. ) Love ! You 
call this love. If you liated me, you could seek no 
worse revenge, 

28 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Norman. No, no ; it is not revenge. I do not seek that, 

but a reward 

Irene. A reward ? Yes, for his capture. I'hen win it. 

Find him ; take your reward — money — and go, but leave 

me at least the consolation of suffering without your 

presence to intensify it. 
Norman. You wrong me. {Close to her ; passionately.) 

I seek no reward but your hand — your love. Tell me 

that you will be mine and there is nothing I will not do 

for you. 
Irene (^slowly comprehending). You mean that you — you 

will 

Norman. That I will prove my love by saving him, if 

Irene. You — you will help him to escape, — you 

Norman. I will. 

Irene. You could not. 

Norman. I could. It would be an easy matter. I will 

aid him to reach some place of safety, where you 

can sometimes see him. 
Irene. There would still be the risk, the suspense. It 

would not mean happiness. 
Norman. I promise you that it shall, 
Irene. You could not keep that promise. I could never 

be happy as your wife. 
Norman. But think of him. 
Irene. I do. I think of it all. He would not wish me 

to make the sacrifice. No, no, I cannot. 
Norman. Is this your answer? {She hesitates.) Think 

what it may mean if you refuse. 
Irene. I do think, but I — I {pauses a mome7it in deep 

thought) I will not answer you now. Give me a 

little time. 
Norman. There is no time to lose. 
Irene. Until to-morrow. 
Norman. Well, until to-morrow, then. {Affectionately.) 

And I shall hope. May I not hope ? {He attempts to 

take her hatid, but she draws away, coldly.) 
Irene. I can give no hope where I have none. You shall 

have your answer — to-morrow. But remember, until 

then we are as strangers. 

{Exit Irene, c. d. l.) 
Norman {after watching her off, comes down). Perhaps 

-9 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

I am a fool to be willing to risk so much for her ; but I 
love her. Of course, there's the reward. It's a lot 
of money, and I have the man cornered so that it is- 
almost an impossibility for him to escape me. But 
what's uioney, if I can win her? But if she throws 
me over again, let her suffer the consequences, that's all. 
{Up ; looking off c. d. r.) Ah, here comes Duii- 
chester back again. {Enter Philip, c. d. r.) Well, 
Philip, it seems to me it didn't take you long to dis- 
pense your hospitality. 

(They are down c ; Philip r., Norman l.) 

Philip. Too long. I came away as soon as possible. 
I wish to speak with you, alone. 

Norman. Well, we are alone. 

Philip. Weir, you and Miss Arnold have met before. 

Norman. Really, you are jumping at conclusions. What 
put that idea into your head ? 

Philip. Her agitation when you were introduced and your 
forced air of indifference. There is a secret in her life 
and you are connected with it. 

Norman. And you are prying into it. Now, that's woman's 
work. Don't you think you should leave that to your 
sharp-tongued parishioner, Mrs. P- Pickles ? 

Philip. Do not jest. This is too serious. Do you think 
that I am blind ? There is a secret ; it concerns an 
escaped convict, for whom you are searching. Miss 
Arnold fears you. Tell me, what is this man to her? 

Norman. Really you are asking too much. I cannot an- 
swer. 

Philip. Very well. But remember this, that poor girl is 
under my protection. I beg of you — I warn you, not 
to persecute her. 

Norman. Persecute her ? I ? No, no, I would not do 
that. But — a— 3'Ou seem deeply interested in her. 

Philip. Interested ? Norman, were you ever in love? 

Norman {astoimded'). Love ? I — you — you love her ? 

Philip. I do ; as a man can love only one woman. 

Norman. Why, — I — I did not dream of that. And you 
have asked her to be your wife ? 

Philip. I have ; only yesterday. 

Norman. And she 

Philip. Refused me. 

30 



THE hINGER OF SCORN 



Norman. Ah ! 

Philip. But I feel that she loves me, I am sure that she 

dees. There is some reason, some obstacle ; this man, 

this escaped prisoner — is he ? 

Norman. Do not ask me. I cannot tell professional se- 
crets. If she loves you, as you say, why does she \x\ 

confide in you ? 
Philip. If she only would. But you can tell me — there is 

no reason why she should not be mine ? Can you not 

tell me that much ? 
NoR.MAN ingoing up ; coldly'). It is not my affair. 
Philip. Wait. Tell me the truth. 
Norman {in c. d.). No. You must get that from her. 

I have nothing to say. 

{Exit Norman, c. d. l.) 

Philip {dotvn to r. c). Perhaps he is right, and I was pry- 
ing into that which does not concern me. But it does 
concern me, it does. And I will not doubt her, what- 
ever comes. I will love and trust her to the end. 
{Enter Dick, c. d. r., somewhat flurried.) Well, 
Doctor Dick, how's this ? You here, and alone ? Have 
you deserted the ladies ? 

Dick {down c. ; embarrassed). N-no, not exactly. You 
see, I — I wanted to see you just a minute ; to ask you 
for something, you know. 

Philip. Very v/ell ; ask me. Anything I have is at your 
disposal. 

Dick. Now, — say, do you mean that? 

Philip. To be sure I do. What is it that you wish to bor- 
row ? 

Dick. Borrow? I — I don't. I want it to keep; some- 
thing you think a good deal of and may not want to 
part with. I — wanted you to give it to me. To keep, 
you know — love, cherish and — and that way. 

Philip. Why, what can it be ? You — you don't mean — no, 
surely, not 

Bess, {off c. d. r.). Philip, where are you? 

Dick. That's it. 

Philip. 0-oh — ho-o ! 

{E?iter Bess, hurriedly, c. d. r., i?i great excitement.) 
Bess. Oh, Philip, something terrible has happened ! 

31 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



Philip. What? What is it? 

Bess {to Dick). You go, Dick ; they want you. Quick. 
There by the church, on this side. (Dick runs out c. 
D. R.) Miss Arnold has fallen— fainted, I guess, and is 
hurt, or something. 

Philip. Miss Arnold ! Hurt ! {Hurries out c. d. r.) 

Bess. Oh, dear, I hope it's nothing serious. ( Goes to- 
ward L. Calls.') Aunt Bina ! Aunt Bina ! Dear 
me, where is she? {Calls off l. loudly.') Aunt Bina, 
where are you ? 

Bina {without). Yes, missy, I'se here. 

Bess. Come here, quick ! 

Bina {appearing L.). Here Ah is. What is it? 

Bess. _ Bring the camphor, some water ; Miss Arnold has 
fainted. 

Bina. Bress my soul ! {Rushes out L.) 

Bess {looking off c. to r.). They're bringing her here. 
She's walking, so I guess it's nothing much. {Places 
chair c, well down.) 

{Enter Irene Arnold, c. d. r., aided by Dr. Dick and 
Peters. Philip is close at hand and several guests 
follow after, one or two of them entering, others in 
door and windows. Irene is placed in chair, c. 
Enter Bina with water, etc. Business of bathing 
Ik'e^^'' ?> forehead, etc.) 

Philip {to Irene). Do you feel better now ? 

Irene [faintly). Yes, much better. I fainted, that was 

all. I — I am not well. 
Dick. It is nothing serious. She will soon be all right. 
Irene. Yes ; it was nothing. {About to rise.) Let me go 

to my room, please. '{Looks about, sees people and 

sinks back. Aside to Fhilip.) Oh, please send them 

away. {Covers face with hands.) 

(Bina extreme R. ; Dick and YnwAv at Irene's l. ; Bess 
at her R. ; Peters l. and others at back. Philip is 
about to speak to guests, when Mrs. Pickins rushes in, 
c. D, R., greatly excited.) 

Mrs. Pickins {doivn l. to l. c). I've seen a pretty sight ! 

I guess I've got something to say ! 
Bess. I never saw you when you hadn't. 

32 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



Mrs. Pickins. I wasn't snoopin' ; 'tain't my way; but I 
couldn't help what I run acrost. I was jest walkin' 
'round th' garden, kmd o' careless like, when I got 
'round by th' side o' th' church before I knew it. 

Irene {aside to Philip). Must she tell it ? 

Philip ( aside to Irene). Not if I can prevent. 

Mrs. Pickins. I didn't notice where I was goin', much, till 
I heard something behind the syringy bushes, and 

Philip. Never mind, Mrs. Pickins ; you need not tell any 
more. 

Mrs. Pickins. Not tell? I'd like t' know why not. I 
guess it ought t' be told. Peters, here, can back me 
up in it. 

Peters. It ain't so very much that I know about it. 

Philip. We will not ask you to tell us about it at present. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, well, if you're so anxious to shield her. 
But I saw 

Philip. Be silent ! 

Dick. You ought to be gagged. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh, I suppose you'd like t' give me some 
of your sickish tastin' med'cine t' do it? Well, you 
won't get th' chance. 

Philip (Jo guests). I will ask you all to leave us now. 
Nothing serious has happened, and Miss Arnold has 
quite recovered. Please think no more about it. 

(^Guests are about to go, hd they linger as Mrs. Pickins 
again speaks.') 

Mrs. Pickins (Joudly). I guess they will think when I tell. 
Philip. Mrs. Pickins, I ask you to remain quiet for the 

present. Will you do that much for me? 
Mrs. Pickins. It ain't for you, it's for her, and she don't 

deserve it. It's my duty to speak out, and I shall. 
Irene (rising). Let her speak. If she has anything to 

say, let them all hear. 
Philip. Well, then, Mrs. Pickins, what do you wish to tell ? 

(Norman Weir appears in c. r>.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Well, as I said before, I was walkin' 'round 
back of th' church, jest strollin', when I heard a rustlin' 
like behind th' syringy bushes. I screamed out a 
little, kind o' scart, and at that I see a man jump and 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

skulk away, and there was Irene Arnold. He had be'n 
with her ! When she see me, she fell over and fainted 
away. I run for somebuddy and th' first person I see 
was Peters, so I told him and then some of the others 
and they went and found her. (To Peters.) Ain't 
that so, Peters ? 

Peters {to Philip). That's how it was, sir, 

Philip {to Mrs. Pickins). Did you not recognize the man 
who ran away ? 

Mrs. Pickins. No, I didn't. It was too dark for me to 
see. That's for her to tell. {Pointing scornfully at 
Irene, who does not look up.) 

Philip. And is that all, Mrs. Pickins ? 

Mrs. Pickins. All? I guess it ain't. {^Crossing; to 
Irene, insinuatingly J) You won't tell who that man 
was. You wouldn't dast ! 

(Irene turns upon her, as if about to speak, then falters?) 

Bess {to Mrs. Pickins, with her arm about Irene). Be 

still, you heartless thing. I should think you'd be 

ashamed ! 
Mrs. Pickins. Then what of her ? She's ashamed to tell 

the truth. {Crossing back to L. c.) 
Philip. Will you never be quiet ? 
Mrs. Pickins. No ; not until she tells who that man was 

she met alone in th' dark, like a thief. If she ain't 

afraid to, let her tell ! 
Norman {coming down; guests fall hack). He is here. 

'Twas I ! 

(Mrs. Vicviws, falls back, abashed; others amazed. Irene 
at first shows surprise, then relief, loo ki fig up boldly. ) 

R. R. c. c. l. c. l. 

Bess-Irene Philip Norman Mrs. Pickins Dick-Bina 

Peters and others at back 



curtain 



34 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Same as before. Just before curtain rises aij 
organ is heard playiin^ a voluntary, softly. There is 
a short pause after curtain rises before Eina enters L., 
bearing a lighted parlor lamp, burning dimly, which she 
places on table R. c. SJie has difficulty with the wick 
a7id fusses over it, turning it up and down. Stage 
rather dark. The organ music dies away soon after 
BiNA begins speaking. 

BiNA. Lan' o' massy, what does ail dis yuh lamp? 'T ac's 
lak all p'sess. Guess 'fMahss Phil'p 'r anybuddy done 
see me now, dey says Ah's lak dem foolish vergums 
'thout they lamps trimmed 'n' burnin', de Good Book 
tole 'bout. 'Tain't mah fault, no how. Ah done 
trim 'n' fill dat ar lamp dis berry mo'nin', suah. 
(^Lamp burns all right ; lights tip.) Dar he be now, 
all right. Ah reckon he done ac' contrary on puppose 
t' try ole Biny's patience. Guess he done do it, too. 
Ah ain' no Miss Job. (She rights things on table, etc., 
humming to herself.') 

(Enter Norman Weir, c. d., with hat and cajze.) 

Norman. Good-evening, Aunt Bina. Where's everybody? 
BiNA. Guess dey's all gone t' ebenin' sarbice, sah; all 

'ceptin' Miss Irene; she ain'. Was yo' lookin' f'r 

anybuddy? 
Norman. No one in particular. I have just been for a 

walk. I forgot all about the service. Is it nearly time 

for it to be out ? 
Bina. 'Tain' b'gun long 'go, but it don' las' so pow'ful 

long. Guess dey's time fo' yo' t' go. Mout do yo' 

good. 
Norman (l. c). Ah, so you are trying to do a little evan- 
gelistic work? But I don't believe I will go to-night. 

So Miss Arnold didn't go? 
Bina. No, she didn' feel lak i- . Ah reckon she ain' none 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

too well. She looks lak a ghos', she does. Ah dunno 
but she's gwine be sick. 
Norman. Oh, no, I guess not. Dr. Heritage says she will 
soon be all right. (^Hc is about to sit, by table, when 
Irene enters R. u. E. She is rather pale.') Ah, here 
she is now. Good-evening, Miss Arnold. I am glad 
to see that you are able to come down. 

(Norman c, Irene r. c, Bina r. back.) 

Irene. I am quite able, I assure you, 

Bina. Ah dunno 'bout dat, missy. Ah guess yo' better 

stayed upsta'rs. 
Irene. Oh, no ; I preferred to come down. 
Bina. Yo' better be car'ful, dough, 'r yo' might git sick. 

{Exit Bina, r. u. e. ) 

Norman. You came down because you wished to see me. 

Am I not right? 
Irene. No ; you are mistaken. It was because I promised 

to see you ; not that I wished to do so. 
Norman. You are none too complimentary. I have been 

all impatience for your coming — you know why. 
Irene. Yes. You are waiting for my answer to your 

proposal of last night. You shall have it at once. It 

is no ! 
Norman {chagrined'). No ! Do you mean that? 
Irene. I mean it. 

Norman. But I had hoped 

Irene. You had no reason to hope. I told you so. 
Norman. But have you considered what it may mean — to 

you — to him ? 
Irene. I have considered everything. I will not be your 

wife. 
Norman. This is final ? 
Irene. It is. 

Norman. After last night — after what I did for you then ? 
Irene. For that you have my thanks, if you intended it 

for a kindness. 
Norman. I did, most assuredly. I saw you in a tight 

place and did my best to help you out of it. Of 

course, I knew the man whom you met, and why you 

could not tell his name, and offered myself as his sub- 

36 



THN FINGER OF SCORN 

stitute simply to avert suspicion, I think I succeeded, 
too. 

Irene. Yes, your ruse was a success in that respect, but 
if it was intended to win my favor and force me to 
acknowledge you as my lover, it has failed. 

Norman. But what will they think? 

Irene. Wliatever they will. It can hardly be much worse 
than they have thought already. 

Norman. Then you refuse me, and 

Irene. And defy you. Do your worst. Send him back 
to prison, break my heart, do what you will ; I am 
through with you. 

Norman. And if I do all this, it will be because you drive 
me to it. You still have a chance of saving him. 

Irene. You have had my answer. 

Norman. You love another. You prefer my ministerial 
friend. Am I not right ? 

Irene. That does not concern you. 

Norman. Yes, it does. It makes me jealous, and a jeal- 
ous man 

Irene. I expect no mercy from you. 

Norman. But believe me, I am sorry for you and shall do 
only my duty. 

Irene. Duty ! Which you are so ready to neglect if you 
can gain your end. No, I do not believe you. You 
are not sorry for me. If you were, you would do me 
the kindness of leaving me alone and sparing me the 
pain of seeing your face and hearing your voice. 
(^Turns, as if to exit R.) 

Norman. You are merciless, now. But it shall be as you 
say. I will leave you. I see you do not desire my 
friendship. 

Irene (turning to hint). No, not such friendship — of one 
who professes to pity and console me, and is all the 
time working to bring about the culmination of my 
misery and despair. I think we need say no more. 
{Turns from hiiti.') 

Norman. Certainly not. It is quite unnecessary. I will 
bid you good-evening. 

{Exit Norman, c. d.) 

Irene {after a slight pause). I could not endure his hypo- 
critical kindness. I have no faith in him. ( Walks 

37 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

about.') Oh, this terrible, terrible suspense! What 
shall I do? What can I do? Nothing, only wait 
for the blow which soon must fall. {She goes np 
to 7ziindo'W in flat and stands lookinf^ out. An organ 
is heard playing " Lead, Kindly Light, '^ followed by 
voices softly singing the hymn. Irene covers her face 
and weeps ; after a pause, comes down and sits by 
table.) Oh, Kindly Light, lead me, it is all so dark — 
so dark. {Leans head on hand zaith arm on table. 
The singing continues until the first two verses have 
been sung.) Oh, Philip, how can I give you up? If 
I could only tell you all and trust to your love and 
generous spirit. But no, I must not, I dare not. I 
will not bring disgrace upon you. I must go away — ■ 

far away — and yet ( There is a sudden decisive tap' 

ping on the window in flat. Irene starts in terror, 
risifig.) What was that? (She stands a moment in 
silence and then the tapping is repeated ; she turns 
and sees the face of John Gordon in the window. 
ILis pale face and white hair are ghastly in the dark" 
ness. Iken'e. cries out, hoarsely.) Father! {Glances 
about in terror and then goes to window^ Oh, why 
have you come here ? You will be detected. 

Gordon {in the window). You must conceal me. Let me 
in, quick ! 

Irene. Conceal you ! Here ? No, no, I cannot ! It 
would not be safe. 

Gordon. You must, I say. Open the door. 

Irene. I dare not. Oh, you don't know what you ask. 

Gordon. You must. Are you not alone ? 

Irene. Yes, at present \ but some one may come at any 
moment. 

Gordon. Let me in, then, at once. There is no time to 
lose. They are on my track. There is no other way 
to escape them. Oh, my daughter, save me ! Do 
not let them take me back to that awful prison. 

Irene. I must risk it. ( Goes and opens door in flat, ad- 
mitting him ; then locks door, draws the window cur- 
tains and leads him down, seating him ifi chair, R. of 
table. He is very sick and feeble.) Now tell me. 
You are tracked, you say? 

Gordon. Yes ; I fear the end is near. {He leans on 
table ; she falls on her knees by his side.) 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Irene. Oh, father, what shall we do ? Think of the dis- 
grace — the horrible, horrible disgrace ! {^Buries face 
in his lap, weeping. ) 

Gordon. Disgrace ? Yes, and think of how I have 
worked and suffered, weeks, months and years, a felon. 
Think of my misery, my child, and save me from being 
taken back to it. [Rises suddenly, so that she is 
nearly throjvn to the fioor.) No, I v>ill not go back ! 
I will die first ! 

Irene {rising). No, father, no ! I will try to save you. 
But how — how ? 

Gordon, Hide me until they have been here and you 
have convinced them that I am not here. Deceive 
them, somehow, and save me. 

Irene. Father, can I do tliat ? Listen. I have been 
turned from the place where I lived, from the school 
where I earned my daily bread, and am shunned by 
nearly all who were formerly my friends. Only the 
noble rector, his sweet sister and t\^ o or three others 
sympathize with me. They have charity — that charity 
which suffereth long and is kind. They do not ques- 
tion me, but trust and befriend me. Think what it 
would mean to them, as well as to us, if you were found 
hidden in this house. 

Gordon. Yes, yes, I do think of it — I do ; but there is 
no other way. If you knew all you would not blame 
me — the opportunity to escape, when others had opened 
the way ; the chance to breathe the free air and see the 
blue sky again. I could not resist — I could not ! 

Irene. I do not blame you, father, but I fear for you. 
You are not safe here a single moment. I must conceal 
you. 

( The door in flat is tried from without. They stand terror- 
stricken. There is a moment's silence, then a knocking 
on door. Gordon crouches behind Irene.) 

Philip (without). Bina ! Aunt Bina, open the door. 
Gordon (Iioarsely). What shall we do ? Save me, Irene, 

save me ! 
Irene (under her breath). I will try. Come. Go in 

there. (Helps him off r. u. e., draws portieres, then 

goes and opens door, admitting Philip.) 
Philip (as he enters). Why, Miss Arnold — you ! 

39 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Irene (striving in vain to he calni). Yes, I— I locked the 
door. I was nervous, and {Stops, grasping chair 

' ' for support.^ 

Philip. What is it? What has happened ? 

Irene. Nothing, only I — I am not very well. You startled 
me. 

Philip. You should not have left your room. I will call 
Aunt Bina. (Starts toward R. u. E.) 

Irene (springing between hint and curtains'). No, no — 
don't ! It is not necessary. I do not need her. 

VnihiP (pausing c). Very well. But — what is it? Some- 
thing has happened. You are agitated. Can't you 
confide in me? 

Irene, No, no ! Please go. 

Philip. No, do not try to deceive me. (Pauses, signifi- 
cantly. ) What if I knew ? 

Irene. What do you mean ? 

Philip. What if I were to say that you are hiding some one 
in that room? (Pointing to r. u. e.) 

Irene. I would still ask you to trust me — to leave me. 
Will you not go ? 

Philip. No, not while you need me here. ( Goes and locks 
door. ) 

Irene. What are you going to do ? 

Philip. Help you — and him. 

Irene. You — you mean 

Philip. That I know there is somebody behind those cur- 
tains and that (He advances toward R. u. E. ; 

she springs to curtains, holding them together^ 

Irene. No, no ! You shall not look ! 

Philip. Irene, you must let me help you. There is not a 
second to spare, if you would save him. 

(She falters a moment, then throws open the curtains, dis- 
closing Gordon, who springs toward Philip.) 

Irene (between theni). Father ! 

Philip (amazed). Your father ! 

Irene. Yes. 

Gordon. Don't betray me, sir, I beg of you ; for her sake, 

if not for mine. 
Philip. Do not be alarmed. I said I would help you and 

I will do my best, whatever the cost. 
40 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



{There is a loud knocking on door in flat. Gordon and 
Irene are terror-stricken ; Philip remains calm. He 
is motioning Gordon out r. u. e., when Bin a enters 
R. I E. She is about to speak, but Philip holds up his 
hand ajui she remains silent ; she throws up her hands 
as she sees Gordon.) 

Philip {to Irene, in a hoarse whisper, motioning r. u. e.). 
Take him in there, as before. 

(Irene puts Gordon in r. u. e., and draws curtains. 
Fhilip hurries Bina oJ^ r. i e., whispering to her, then 
returns. The knocking is repeated. ~) 

Philip {to Irene). Try to be calm. 

{She sits by table, as Philip goes and opens door, c, ad- 
mitting Norman Weir, who is followed by Sheriff 
Blake and two constables.') 

Philip. Well, this is something of a surprise. Good-even- 
ing, Mr. Blake. 

Blake. Good-evening, sir. 

Norman {to Philip). I am sorry to disturb you ; it seems 

like an intrusion, I know, but {To Irene.) Ah, 

Miss Arnold, I see you again so soon. 

(Irene, rising, bows coolly, but does not speak.) 

Norman. It's business, you know. 

Philip. Business ? 

Blake. Yes, sir ; we're after a man — a convict. We think 
he's here. 

Philip. In this house ? 

Blake. Yes, sir. Ain't he ? 

Philip. What reason have you for thinking that he is here ? 

Blake. Well, you see, sir, we traced him to the church, 
or pretty near there, and then we lost track of him, 
somehow, and he has managed to give us the slip. But 
I don't think he can do it again. You see, we just 
about the same as know that he's in this house. 

Philip {to Norman). And is this the result of some of your 
clever detective work ? 

Norman. Perhaps it is. Anyhow, I agree with Mr. Blake. 
The man could not very well have gone elsewhere. 

41 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

That door was locked, the window curtain drawn 

( To Irene.) They were not so a few moments ago, Miss 
Arnold, 

Irene. I — no, I — I 

Philip. Gentlemen, if you are here on such important busi- 
ness, the sooner it is done, the better. What do you 
wi.sh to do ? 

Blake. Search this house. 

Philip, Very well ; if you think it necessary. 

Blake. Well, I should say it was. Wouldn't you, Mr. 
Weir? 

Norman. Yes. {To Philip.) Surely, you can have no 
objections ? 

Philip, Why should I object ? 

(Irene is r,, not facing others, attempting to hide her fear. 
Philip is r. c, near her; Norman c, Blake l. c. 
and constables "L. c, somewhat back.') 

Norman, Well, we have lost time enough already. {He 

and Blake make motions to begin the search. They 

pause as Philip speaks.) 
Philip. Wait. What if I tell you that there is no one here 

— that the man you seek is not in this house? 
Norman. I — I don't know as I could believe you. 
Blake, See here, Mr. Weir, I ain't goin' to back you up 

in that. I ain't for doubtin' the parson's word. It's 

my opinion he wouldn't hide no convict in the rect'ry, 

and I shan't search if he objects. 
Norman. Nor will I insist, if Mr. Dunchester says the man 

is not here and that he has not seen him, 
Blake (/.? Philip), Well, do you want to say that ? 

(Philip is about to speak, when there is a movefnent behind 
the curtains. It is noticed by one of the constables, who 
calls Blake's attention to it, pointing.) 

Blake {starting). There's somebody behind them cur- 
tains, I seen 'em move. {Goes toward Vi. u. e.) 

Irene {runs and gets in front of curtains, holding them to- 
gether). You shall not look ! 

Blake. I must, miss. 

Irene {frantically). No, no; you shall not 1 

42 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Norman. There is no use resisting, Miss Arnold. You 

must stand aside. 
Irene ijwldlng curtains y desperately). No! 
Philip. Let them look. 

{She fi?ia/iy relents, almost fainting, as she totters back to 
R., and is supported by Philip. Blake goes up and 
tears aside the curtains, disclosing Aunt Bina, who 
stands tvith uplifted hands. The others fall back in 
amazement.) 

R. R. C. L. C. L. 

Irene-Philip Norman Blake Constables 



CURTAIN 



43 



ACT IV 

SCENE. — Same as before. A light stmimer shawl is 
thrown over the back of a chair, r. Discover Norman 
Weir seated on sofa, fanniiig himself with his hat. 

Norman. Whew ! but it's hot ! I don't see how Miss Bess 
and the doctor can stay out there in the broiling sun, 
playing tennis. It's too much for me. {Yawns.') 
Ho, hum ! I'm sleepy. This weather makes me lazy. 
{Yawns and stretches. Looks around.) There's no- 
body about; I guess I'll take a nap. 

{Leans back and dozes. After a pause, Mrs. Yvzy.y&'S) looks 
in c. D., then comes down c. She carries a parasol and 
a waist, rolled up. ) 

Mrs. Pickins. Land ! if it ain't that Mr. Weir ; t' sleep, 
too. How lazy lookin' ! {About to sit R. c, hits 
chair against table and wakens Norman.) 

Norman. Oh, why, is that you, Mrs. Pickins? Good- 
afternoon. 

Mrs. Pickins. Good-afternoon. Don't let me disturb you. 
{Sits L. of table.) 

Norman. Oh, not at all. I just thought I'd take a little 
nap. Warm, isn't it? 

Mrs. Pickins. Dreadful, for June. Go on with your nap, 
for all me. I'll sew on this waist. {Unrolls bundle 
and begins sewing. ) 

Norman. You are very industrious. 

Mrs. Pickins. I guess I don't waste much time doin' 
nothin'. 'Tain't my way. 

Norman. You seem to be waisting it now. 

Mrs. Pickins. I guess I ain't. Can't you see I'm busy? 

Norman. Y-yes; but isn't that — er — a waist? 

Mrs. Pickins. Land ! if you ain't jest like Dick Heritage, 
always tryin' t' say something smart. I'd be ashamed 
to be so friv'lous, if I was a man. 

Norman. But, of course, being a woman 

44 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Mrs. PiCKiNS. What's that? 

Norman. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking that a man is 

not to blame because he is unfortunate enough not to 

be a woman. (^Rises, walks up.') 
Mrs. Pickins. H'm ! Well, they don't many of 'em have 

enough sense t' see it that way. {Slight pause.') Say! 

what's the truth about what happened here t' the 

rect'ry last night? 
NoRM.^N. Happened ? {Aside.) Ah, I see what brought 

her over — curiosity. 
Mrs. Pickins. Why, yes; Pve heard half-a-dozen different 

stories. They say you're a detective. Be you? 
Norman. So! that's one thing they say, is it? I wonder 

how they found out so much. 
Mrs. Pickins. That ain't half. They say you're after 

them escaped convicts, and that you and the sheriff 

tracked one of 'em here t' the rect'ry. I can't hardly 

believe it, but 

{Enter Irene Arnold, r. u. e.) 
Norman. Ah, Miss Arnold 



Mrs. Pickins {aside). If it ain't her ! I suppose I'll 
have t' treat her decent. {Aloud to Irene.) How d' 
do? 

(Irene up r. c. ; Mrs. Pickins seated 's^. ; Weir l. c.) 

Irene. Good- afternoon. 
Norman. You are feeling better to-day? 
Irene {coldly). Yes, thank you. 
Norman. Won't you sit down ? {Offers chair.) 
Irene. No, thanks. 

Mrs. Pickins {rising). I suppose Biny is in the kitchen? 
Irene. I presume so. 

Mrs. Pickins. I want t' try this basque on her. {Crosses 
to L.) I'll go right in. 

{Exit L., leaving parasol on table. Irene is about to exit 
c. D.) 

Norman. Miss Arnold {She is going toward c. d.) 

Will you not let me speak with you ? 

Irene {turning). Why should you speak ? There is noth- 
ing more to be said between you and me. 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Norman. But I — I cannot bear to let it be thus. If I can 

be nothing more to you, may I not be at least your 

friend? 

Irene. You have not proved yourself my friend 

Norman, But if I do so — if I 

Irene. I ask no favors of you ; I will accept none. You 

will excuije me. I wish to see Dr. Heritage. ( Goitig.) 
Norman (^going to c. d., ahead of her). He is on tlit 

lawn. Allow me to call him 

Irene. No, I 

Norman. But I insist. I will send him to you. 

(Exit Norman, c. d. l.) 

Irene (pauses in door, looking after hivi). Perhaps I 
wrong him. But no, — he is only working for an end. 
I cannot believe in his friendship. (Comes down.') 
Oh, this suspense, this dreadful suspense ! Every 
moment brings a new terror, an added fear, that my 
father will be discovered. (Sits on sofa.) He is so 
ill, so despondent, and I dare not stay with him. 

(Enter Dick Heritage, c. d. l.) 

Dick (pausing in c. d.). You wished to see me. Miss 

Arnold ? 
Irene. Yes, doctor. Will you sit here by me ? (Making 

room for him on sofa.) 
Dick (looking around, doubtfully). Yes, thank you; with 

pleasure. (Sits by her.) 
Irene. I must know — I wish to ask you — you have seen 

him ? ( Their heads are close together. ) 
Dick. Yes, early this morning, before anybody else was 

about, — Mr. Dunchester and I. Have you not seen 

him to-day ? 
Irene (looking about, fearfully). No; I dare not enter 

the church. I have been watching for an opportunity. 

Mrs. Pickins is here now. 
Dick. The old catamaran ! Why does she persist in 

coming where she isn't wanted? 
Irene. She always pleads some urgent matter. Never 

mind ; tell me of him. 
Dick. I found him very weak and despondent — you see I 

tell you the plain truth. 
Irene. I want you to tell me nothing else. Go on, please. 

46 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Dick. The little room where he is concealed is too close. 

He must have more air ; he cannot stand it to remain 

there. 
Irene. But what can we do ? 

Dick. We must remove him from the church to a better place. 
Irene. But dare we — would it be safe? 
Dick. We must risk it ; there is no other way. 

{Enter Bess, c. d. l., carrying tennis racket ; starts down 
c, sees Irene and Dick, looks at them suspicionsly, 
then tosses her head and flounces out c. d. l.) 

Irene. Yes. He cannot be left there. {^Rises.) 

Dick (rising, goes up c). 1 think we can manage it all 

right. {Enter Mrs. Pickins, l., unnoticed.) Now, 

if you wish to go in the church 

Irene (following him ; seeing Mrs. Pickins. Aside to 

Dick.) Sh ! there is 

Dick (seeing Mrs. Pickins). Oh ! 

Mrs. Pickins (l. c). Land ! What be you goin' in th' 

church for, this time o' day? There ain't no meetin', 

is there ? 
Irene. Why, no — I was — I was just going in for a few 

minutes. It is nice and cool in there and I like to play 

on the organ. 
Mrs. Pickins. I want t' know. 
Dick (coming dowti). You want to know altogether too 

much. You are interested in everybody's business but 

your own. 
Mrs. Pickins. What's that? Be you talkin' to me? 
Dick. I guess I am. If nobody else will tell you what 

they think of you, I will. 

(Dick and Mrs. Pickins down c, Irene up r.) 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh ! you will ? You're a pretty one t' 
talk. ( Going at him with her parasol, which she seizes 
from table.) You impudent, sassy upstart ! (Chases 
him about stage.) 

(E?iter Philip, r. u. e. and sees them.) 

Philip. What is this ? Why, Mrs. Pickins — Dr. Dick ! 

M]RS. Pickins (pausing — to Phiup). Be you goin' t' 
stand there and hear me insulted ? Me ! a respectable 
woman what minds her own business, and 

47 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Philip. I did not hear it, Mrs. Pickins. 

Mrs. Pickins. Well, I don't never quarrel nor have no 
words with nobuddy — 'tain't my way — but I ain't 
goin' t' stand no more abuse from this young rowdy. 
It's gone far enough. 

Philip. So it has. 1 will ask Dr. Heritage to explain. 

Mrs. Pickins. Oh ! you're goin' t' take his explanation and 
not mine, be you ? 

Philip. Why, I am sure the doctor did not intend to 
abuse you, Mrs. Pickins. 

Mrs. Pickins. I'd like t' know what you call it. I've 
stood it about long enough. {Preparing to go.) But 
you can take his word for it if you want to {pointing 
to Irene, scornfully) and hern too, for all I care. I 
don't stay where I can see I ain't wanted. 'Tain't 
my way. When you want my explanation, you know 
where I live. {Flounces up c. and into Bess, who 
enters C. D. L.) 

Bess. Oh ! 

Mrs. Pickins {pausing). I should like to know how many 
more times you're goin' t' bunk into me ! 

Bess. Excuse me, but I should say it was you bunked into 
me, that time. 

Mrs. Pickins. Hold your tongue ! {Rushes out c. d. l.) 

Bess {coming down). Well! Did you ever? 

Dick. Whew ! what a hurricane ! 

(Irene comes down r., sits by table.) 

Bess. I guess she's mad again. 

Dick. It looks very much like it. 

Irene. Poor Mrs. Pickins has a very unhappy disposition. 

{Comes down r.) 
Philip. Yes ; we must have lots of charity for her. Her 

intentions may be all right. 
Dick. And her attentions all wrong. I can't have any 

charity for her. She never has any for other people. 
Philip. Ah ! that is the very reason, then, why we should 

be charitable toward her. 

(Philip r., near Irene ; Dick ^»^Bess l.) 

Dick. Oh, dear ! I suppose so ; but I'm not good enough 

for that yet. 
Bess. I should say not. {Sits on sofa.) 

48 



THE FINGER OF SCORAT 

Dick. Oh, but I didn't want you to say so, you know. 

Bess. And why not ? It's true. 

Dick. Well — er — yes, maybe ; but — (^silling beside her) 

that isn't your opinion, I'm sure. 
Bess. Oh! Isn't it? Qtimps tip.) 
Dick. What ? 

(Philip and Irene go tip r., conversing in pantomime ; 
Dick and Bess down c.) 

Bess. I suppose you think you're the best man in the 
world, don't you? 

Dick. Why, no — but I supposed you thought so. 

Bess. I ? The idea ! You needn't flatter yourself. 

Dick. Why, Bess, what's the matter? 

Bess. Don't speak to me ! (^Runs off c. to L.) 

Dick {after standing looking after her a moment, dazed). 
Well ! what now, I wonder ? {Runs out after her.) 

Philip {as they come down). Ah, how true it is that the 
course of true love never runs smooth. Now, they 
have been engaged only two days, and they are having 
a quarrel already. 

Irene. So you have consented ? 

Philip. Yes ; but they are not to be married for a year or 
so, at least. 

Irene. How happy they will be ! 

Philip. And our happiness, Irene ? What of that ? 

Irene. Happiness? Is there such a thing as happiness 
for me? 

Philip. Yes, yes ; surely there is, with my love and pro- 
tection 

Irene. But think — of him — of the danger 

Philip. I do not forget. We can only hope, and wait. 

Irene. And you still want me to be your wife — in spite of 
all? 

Philip. Through all and in spite of all, yes. {He takes 
her hand ; they stand a moment in silence, looking into 
each other's eyes, tenderly.) Have you seen him to- 
day? 

Irene. No, I have not dared ; but I have just seen Dr. 
Heritage. He says that he must be moved ; he must 
be where he can have more air. 

Philip. Yes, and at once. We must confide in Peters and 
get his assistance. He will be a faithful sentinel and 

49 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

never betray us. (^Goes up ; looks r. atid l.) I think 

you can go in the church now. 
Irene (uf). Will it be safe ? 
Philip. Yes ; I will watch. Have courage, dear heart, 

and hope for the best. 
Irene. I will try. 

(^Exit Irene r. u. e., as Norman Weir enters d. Y.from l.) 

Norman (^pauses in door, looks after Irene, then comes 
down) . Philip Dunchester, I have come to warn you. 

Philip. Warn me ? I — what do you mean ? 

Norman. I mean that there is not a moment to lose if you 
would save John Gordon. 

Philip. Then you know — you ? 

Norman. Yes, Am I not a detective? For what else did 
I come here ? He is hidden in that church, where his 
daughter has just gone to join him. They are not safe 
there a single moment. We must help them. 

Philip. But I do not understand. Last night you were 
helping to hunt him dov/n ; now you offer to assist in 
his escape. What does it mean ? 

Norman. It means that I have come to my senses, that the 
humanity within me has conquered over a feeling of 
wounded vanity and a desire for revenge. It has not 
been without a struggle, Philip, but since last night I 
have thought of nothing but her suffering, and my 
heart is not able to withstand its own pleadings to help 
her. I want to prove that I am her friend, and yours. 
Will you trust me ? {Extending his hand. ) 

Philip {hesitating a moment, while he looks straight into 
Weir's eyes ; then grasping his hand'). I will. 

Norman. Thank you. You will not regret it. Now we 
must act. Blake and his men are about to search the 
church again, and we must be quick if we would out- 
wit them. 

Philip. But your duty to the law ? 

Norman. There is a higher law than that of any earthly 
tribunal. I need not tell you that. My duty is to 
that law now. Come. 

Philip. Norman Weir, Heaven will reward you for this act. 
You are indeed a friend. {Again grasps his hand, 
warmly, as they exeunt R. i E. Just after they dis- 
appear, Bess enters c. d. l., in apet,fol/owed by Dick.) 

50 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



Bess. Don't speak to me ! 

Dick. But — why not ? 

Bess. Because. 

Dick. Oh, because ! That's a very good reason. 

Bess. Of course it is. Because I don't want you to. 
That ought to be sufficient. 

Dick. Well, I suppose if you don't want to tell me what'.-, 
the matter with you, you w^on't. I can't imagine whai 
you're mad about. 

Bess {flouncing herself on sofa). Don't talk to me, 

Dick. But I haven't anybody else to talk to. 

Bess. Goodness sakes ! — then don't talk. 

Dick (about to sit l>y her side). I can't tell you how much 
I love you if 1 don't. (^She spreads out her skirts on 
both sides so that there is no roo??i for him to sit on 
sofa.) I — I guess I couldn't tell you that, though, if 
I were to talk forever. I love you so much. {Puz- 
zled.) Shall I sit on your lap? 

Bess. The idea ! No, certainly not. 

Dick. There isn't any other place. 

Bess. Aren't there chairs enough over there? 

Dick. But I don't want to sit on a chair. 

Bess. Oh, take the whole sofa, then ! {Jumping up.) 

Dick. I don't want the Avhole sofa. It was made for two, 
at least. 

Bess. Ah, indeed? You'd better get Miss Arnold to sit 
on it with you, then. 

Dick {as he slowly comprehends). 0-oh, Bess ! You're 
not jealous ? 

Bess. Hm ! I should hope not. 

Dick. And so should I. But you are, though. You saw 
me sitting on the sofa with ]\Iiss Arnold, and you are 
jealous of her. 

Bess. I'm not any such thing ! 

Dick. Oh, yes, you are. Do you know, that's the very 
best compliment you can pay me — to get jealous. li 
proves you love me. 

Bess. I don't love you — I don't ! 

Dick. Oh, Bess ! Didn't 3'our Sunday-school teacher 
ever tell you not to tell fibs? It wasn't an hour ago 
that you vowed you loved me more than — more than 
— anything! {Coaxingly.) Come, Bess, let's make 
up. Don't act so. 

51 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Bess (relenting slightly). Then tell me v/hat you and 
she. were sitting there for. 

Dick. Why — a — she had something to tell me. 

Bess. What v/as it ? 

Dick. Oh, I — why, nothing much. 

Bess. You v/on't tell me, then ? 

Dick. I can't, Bess. 

Bess. It's a secret, is it ? 

Dick. Y-yes, it is. 

Bess. How can you have a secret from me, and we en- 
gaged ? I think it's dreadful ! (Cries.') 

Dick (coaxingly). Now, Bess, don't. 

Bess (boo-hooing). Let me alone ! 

Dick. It wasn't anything you ought to know, really it 
wasn't. It was only a professional secret. You must 
remember, I am a physician now, and have got to have 
some professional secrets. Besides, it is something I 
promised not to tell. 

Bess. You know you shouldn't make such promises and 
keep things from me. But I don't care. You may 
consider our engagement broken, Mr. Heritage. 

Dick {at first dumfounded, then asstiming an injured 
air). What ! You mean to say — oh, very well. If 
you cannot trust me any more than that, we may as 
well break it, now and here. I dare say we would be 
very unhappy together. {He starts to go up c.) 

Bess (faintly). Dick ! (He pretends not to hear her. 
She calls again, a little louder.) Dick ! (Still he does 
not turn.) Dear Dick ! 

Dick (turning). Did you speak to me. Miss Dunchester? 

Bess. Oh, Dick, I — didn't mean it. (Half crying.) I 
didn't mean 

Dick. To what do you refer ? 

Bess. What I said — that I di-didn't Move you. I — I 
d-do, Dick, I d-do. 

Dick. I don't want you to make any mistake this time. 

Bess. No, I'm not. I made a mistake when I acted so. 
I am sorry, now. P-please forgive me ! 

Dick (sternly). Well, I don't know as — (suddenly melt- 
ing) — as there is anything to forgive — my dear ! (He 
opens his arms and she falls into tJiem, burying her 
face on his shoulder. Then she raises her face to his, 
he kisses her, and they g? -p c, as Bin a enters r. i e.) 
53 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 



BiNA. Laws a massy ! Ah hope Ah don't int'feah 'r 
nuffin. {I^icv:. and "^^sSi pay 710 attention to her.) Ah 
say, Ah hope Ah ain' int'ruptin'. (Dick ami 'Q^ss go 
out C. D. L., arm in arm.) Ah guess dey done gone 
turned deef. He ! he ! ain' got ears n'r eyes f r no- 
buddy n'r nuffin but deyse'fs, ca'se dey's in lub. 
{Goes up, chuckling to herself.) Dat dinner's gwine 
all spile 'f somebuddy don' come 'long 'n' eat it 'fore 
long. {Casually looks off c. to L., theji to -r.) Oh! 
Oh, bress my soul ! Dere's de sherr'ff 'n' de con- 
st'bles gwine int' de church. Oh, what gwine happ'n? 
Mebby dey'll fin' dat ole man. Oh, Ah's so scart ! 
{Greatly agitated, etc.) 

(Irene Arnold appears in r. u. e.) 

Irene {huskily). Aunt Bina ! 

BiNA. 'S dat you, Miss Irene? What is it? What's de 
mattah ? 

Irene. My father ! They are bringing him here. 

Bina. In yuh? 

Irene. Yes. The sheriff is about to search the church 
again, and we dare not leave him there. Mr. Dun- 
chester has spirited him into the house by the back 
way. Oh, I am so frightened ! I am sure they will 
find him. 

Bina {consolingly). Dere, dere, don' yo' be 'fraid. Ah 
guess dey won't git 'ira. Don' yo' worry. {Looks 
off to R.) Dere dey goes int' de church now. See ! 

Irene {looking off). Then they think he is still there. Ah, 
Peters is with them. 

Bina. Yes, he done show 'em in. 

Irene. Then he knows and is trying to mislead them. 
They may be satisfied and go away. {Goes R.) 

Bina {in c. d.). Yuh comes Doctah Dick. 

(Irene turns. Dick enters c. d. l., as Bina exits r. i e.) 

Dick. Blake is in the church with his men. I fear 

Irene. He is not there. 

Dick. Your father ? 

Irene. He is here — in the house. {Points up r.) There ! 

With Mr. Dunchester and Mr. Weir. 
Dick. Weir ? 

53 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Irene. Yes. He knows all and is aiding us. 
Dick. He — aiding you — why, I do not understand. 
Irene. Nor I. Only that he has changed suddenly and 

seems to be our friend. 
Dick. Do you not mistrust his motives ? 
Irene. He appears to be sincere. I can only hope that he 

is so. 

{Enter Bess, c. d. l.) 

Bess (to Dick). Oh, here you are. What made you run 

away from me so suddenly ? 
Dick. Did I ? Why, I didn't mean to. 
Bess. But you did. How funny everybody acts. Why I 

just saw the sheriff and the constables come out of the 

church. 
Irene. You say you saw them come out of the church ? 
Bess. I certainly did. What's it all about ? 
Dick. Are you sure they came out ? 
Bess. Why, of course they did, just this minute. I don't 

see what they were doing in there. 
Dick. Never mind. 

Bess. Nevermind? That's just the way 

Irene. And where did they go ? 

Bess. Into the house, by the back door. 

Irene (alarmed). Oh, what shall we do? I fear it is 

the end. (Starts toward r. and meets Norman Weir, 

who enters r. u. e.) Mr. Weir — what — what has 

happened ? 
Norman. Do not be alarmed. 
Irene. They have found him ? 
Norman. No. 

(Irene runs off -r. u. e.) 

Dick. But you think they will ? 

Norman. If we don't outwit them. 

Bess (mtich perplexed^. Who — what? What is it? 

Dick, tell me. 
Dick. No, not now. Wait. 
Bess. Oh, dear ! 

{Enter John Gordon, r. u. e., assisted by Irene and 
Philip. Norman niotio7is them to place him on sofa 
L., which they do. Gordon seems too weak to speak 

54 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

and sinks back lifelessly. Irene bends over him ; Weir 
seizes shawl from back of chair r. c. and throws it 
over back of sofa on which Gordon is seated, so that 
it covers his head and shoulders, then motions Irene 
and Bess to stand so that Gordon is hidden from view. 
Bess subtnits itt a perplexed manner. Dick whispers 
to her, she looks surprised, then nods assent and puts 
on an air of gaiety, chatting in pantonwne with Irene, 
etc., while Blake a7id men are on. Norman is c. ; 
Dick l. c, Philip up r. c.) 

Norman. Now we are ready. 

Philip. And just in time. They are coming. 

{Enter Bina, r. u. e., in excitement.^ 

BiNA. De sher'flF's yuh, sah. 
Philip. Let him come in. 
BiNA. An' de const'bles. 
Philip. Very well. 

{As he speaks, Blake enters r. u. e., followed by the two 
men.') 

Norman {going up). Ah, Mr. Blake, so you are here 

again. Anything new ? 
Blake. Yes, sir; I be'n foUerin' up them clues. We've 

be'n through th' church agin, but we didn't find th' 

man. 
Norman. So he isn't there ? 
Blake. No, he ain't, not now. But he has be'n. It's my 

opinion he's hid right in this house, now. 
Norman. Well, if that is your opinion, perhaps we had 

better continue the search. I don't think Mr. Dun- 

chester will object. 
Philip. Certainly not. 
Blake. We don't want no half-way business this time. 

We're goin' t' do it thor'er, parson 'r no parson. 
Philip. I shall not hinder you in the least. 
Blake. Well, sir, y' see, it's business. We'll get right at 

it. Mr. Weir, you take Barber and go that way, {in- 
dicating L.), and I'll take Higgins and go this. We'll 

be sure this time. 
Norman. That's a good plan. L.ofC. 

55 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

{Exeunt Blake and one man r. u. e. ; Norman and the 
other man L.) 

Irene {who has tried to act unconcerned^ now in breath- 
less fear'). Oh, how will it all end? Father ! father ! 
{Lifts shawl and bends over Gordon, who does not 
look up.) 

Philip {near her). Have courage. I am sure Mr. Weir 
will get them away and then there will be no more 
danger. 

Irene. Oh, I pray Heaven that it may be so. {Falls on 
her knees by Gordon's side, burying her face in hands 
on his knees.) 

Philip {helping her to rise). Come, you must compose 
yourself. They may return. 

Irene {rising). Yes, yes ; I must not betray myself. 

(Philip and Irene walk to r. Dick be7zds over Gordon, 
starts, looks alarmed, puts his hand over the old man's 
heart. Bess has gone up stage and is looking off both 
sides, meanwhile conversing in dumb show with 

BiNA.) 

Dick. Miss Arnold, perhaps you had better go to your 
room ; there is no more danger, and 

Irene. No, no, I could not bear the suspense. I must 
stay here until he is safe. 

Dick {aside). Safe ! 

(Dick is about to replace shawl over Gordon' s/iz^i?, when 
Blake appears in r. u. e., seeing Gordon.) 

Blake {advancing and pointing). There's my man. 
Irene {with a cry of terror, springing between Blake and 

Gordon). No, no ! You shall not have him ! 
Blake. He is my prisoner. 
Irene. No ! I say he is not ! 
Blake. You'd better stand aside, miss. I've got th' law 

of th' land t' back me up. 
Irene. And the law of humanity backs me up — the law 

of love and duty. He is my father ; he is ill, perhaps 

dying. You would not take him from me ! 
Blake. I must, miss. {Going toward her.) It's my 

duty as an officer. 
Irene {in desperation). You shall not ! 

56 



THE FINGER OF SCORN 

Philip. Irene — come. (7<7 Blake.) Mr. Blake, one mo- 
ment. 
Blake. No, sir, you can't hoodwink me agin. 

{Enter Norman, i.., followed by man.) 

Norman. What is it? {Toe.) 

Blake. I've found my man. (Foifiting.) There he is ! 
Ain't that th' one we're after, Mr. Weir ? 

(Norman is about to speak when Dick holds up his hand.) 

Dick. No, he is not yours. 

Blake. What 

Dick {calmly). He is free — forever. 

{All look surprised and awed. Irene glances at Gordon, 
comprehends, is about to faint and is caught in Philip's 
arms. Dick drops the shawl over Gordon's face.) 

Tableau 

Philip and Irene r. c. ; Blake c, a little back; Nor- 
man L. c. ; Dick l. of Gordon ; Bess and Bina 
L. c, back ; constables r. and L., well back. 

Curtain 



57 



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